Nothing Left to Say
by DarkAngel555
Summary: When everything is said and done, what is he left with? Introspective Connor fic set after AC 3. Minor ToKW mentions, but barely noticeable.


_DA: Well, I really don't have an excuse for this one. But I'm just gonna file this under reasons why I shouldn't play ToKW while emotionally unstable. No really, I had wayyy too many Connor feels while playing the DLC. _

_But this is just an introspective Connor fic. It's kinda based on the ToKW OSTs and Nothing Left to Say by Imagine Dragons, hence the name of the story. This was posted first on tumblr, but I wanted to put it up here._

_Disclaimer: Nope, nada, zip. I wish I owned Connor. ;)_

_DA: Anyways, enjoy!_

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Nothing Left to Say

Connor sat back in the simple wooden chair, brown eyes reflecting the flickering light thrown by the fire. His small cup of tea sat forgotten by his feet, its contents long since gone cold. Moonlight trickled in through cracks in the closed draperies, splashing brightly against the worn floor. Shadows danced in response to the swirling flames, the walls behind him a mass of shapes and movement.

But he paid no mind to it, staring intently into the flames. He wore plain breeches and a threadbare, white undershirt, the night's chill sinking unnoticed through the thin sleepwear. Locks of dark hair were draped down his neck, the string of beads resting comfortably against the skin of his face. He had grown it out since the Lee incident, having grown uncomfortable with the Mohawk. Under the few strands of unruly hair, Connor's face was creased with exhaustion, the tired gaze unmoving.

And there was a sadness there, an emptiness that weighed down his entire being. It was over, all of it. And what did he have to show for his efforts? Everything he cared about was gone. His home, his family, his friends, everything. Over the mantle, Achilles' eyes bore down on him, a gaze he struggled to meet most days. The old man had known what this mission would cost him, warned him of it even. But he didn't listen. And it got him nothing. All he had now was this damned hollowness that permeated his very being, his chest aching at the hole carved by all this pain and loss.

He wanted to scream.

Connor knew he couldn't though. The sound would only hurt more as it echoed loudly in the vacant rooms. So instead, he sat, dark eyes trained on the dancing flames. How many times had the old man sat like this, pondering life decisions and regretting his every action? Was he too doomed to be the old man on the hill, hobbling around an empty house filled with painful memories? Achilles had given him this fate the moment he'd given him his son's name.

Connor… That was who he was now. Once upon a time, he had another name, one filled with meaning and culture. But that was a name for another life. One that he couldn't face now, nor did he wish to remember it. That life was filled with darkness and pain, and a hunger that could not be sated. He sometimes dreamt of that place, a vision that had him seated here, closer to the light and away from that dark hunger. He wouldn't sleep anymore tonight.

He sighed as the early dawn light spilled into the room, the once raging fire reduced to glowing embers. Who's to say that his actions had even been in the right? Maybe his father had been the one with the more accurate view of the world. Was it really just to kill all those people, even in the name of freedom? After all, it only left him here, alone in the dark weighted by his own actions. It had to be done, that much he knew. If not he, then who? Connor would rather him take this burden than anyone else.

Standing slowly, he moved over to his robes, discarded on the back of a chair since the previous night. His fingers trailed lightly over the rough material, mouth curled down in thought. He hoisted the garment up, hands coiled in the cloth. Pulling on the sturdy outfit, the native stood tall, the weight of the heavy fabric settling comfortably about his shoulders despite the sharp pull of the old injury about his abdomen. The night was for doubt, the day was for conviction.

Connor knew his purpose. He defended freedom so that one day there might be peace. His efforts ensured countless people might live unburdened by tyranny and oppression. His blade might be soaked in blood, but it was all for people who believed in something bigger than themselves. He needed no other reasoning. He was an Assassin.

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_DA: I've gone over those last two paragraphs at least fifty times and I still don't like them... Ugh. Ah well, it was just my inner angster calling for a less hopeful ending. I thought about killing him, but I couldn't do it. I'm just really protective of Connor and I don't really know why._

_Anyway, I'm rambling. So I hope you enjoyed! Please tell me what you think!_

_May your hearts stay strong,_

_DarkAngel555_


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